Becoming Still

Maybe I need to stop reacting to all
the cruelty and injustice in the world,
and centre down into life inside
these four walls, sliding door open to
the pretty blooms on my balcony,
turning towards the sun,
the chattering jays who let me know
when they need the sunflower seeds
topped up in the feeder.

"Become still," the poet said,
"then reach out with your heart."

Life is beautiful, in my village;
people are conscious and caring,
respectful and grateful.
We are surrounded by nature's wild beauty;
we  know we are blessed.
In the bigger world, crowds rage
against oppression and a growing fascism.
In the bigger world, there are pandemics,
both physical and spiritual.
The way we were is gone;
the way we are is untenable.
But, still, brave souls are marching,
demanding a more just world.

I watch, from my couch,
exhausted by my 74 years of living,
the worst the last three and a half,
when my idealism, my persistent optimism,
my belief in the transformation
of consciousness
slowly sank under black venomous rhetoric,
that spread like the virus,
creating two polarized communities
with an abyss floating between them.

Who will come with large enough vision
to build the bridge that will allow us
to meet?
When will the rainbow warriors
arrive?

Wild Writing with Laurie Wagner
inspired by Pandemic by Lynn Ungar